


The Bronze Birdcage

by Damdamfino



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Book Universe, Brothels, F/M, Implied Incest, Prostitution, R Plus L Equals J, Resurected Jon, Sexual Content, hidden identities
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-10-15 17:11:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17532863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Damdamfino/pseuds/Damdamfino
Summary: [Book Canon Divergence]After the slaying of King Joffrey, Petyr steals Sansa away from King’s Landing to hide in one of his establishments. Alayne Stone has helped Lord Baelish run his whorehouse for several years with no incident, until one day when a mysterious man walks in and pays her weight in gold.





	The Bronze Birdcage

**Author's Note:**

> Let’s pretend for a moment that the Others are taking their sweet time coming south of the Wall. Let’s pretend that Jon has had quite an adventure after being brought back from the dead. Let pretend that Petyr never took Sansa to the Vale, but instead chose to hide her away in one of his establishments. Let’s pretend that post-death Jon is looking to avenge his family, and has nothing else left to lose...or so he thought.

 

 

—

It was a lifetime ago when Lord Baelish whisked young Sansa away from King’s Landing. They had run, together, away from the death of Joffrey and away from the courts and whispers. Quickly they found themselves in the Riverlands, beginning anew.

Petyr was the Lord of Harrenhal by royal decree, but he found the castle such a dreadful place he did not intend to spend much time there. Petyr liked pretty things - the nicest things - and over the years he had focused his attention on improving an old rundown brothel he acquired just off the Kingsroad into something more fitting of King’s Landing. He brought in silks from Dorne by the shipload and gold filigree ornaments from Essos. Slowly, the humble and unassuming establishment turned into a pearl amongst the swine. Like a mirage in the desert, men came from miles around hungry for the pleasure within.

Alayne helped Lord Baelish as a daughter would; keeping the books, counting the coin, keeping secrets, and attending to the girls who worked there. Over the years her dreams had weaned off returning home, and it was easier to imagine herself taking over her new family business than returning to the life she once knew. As a girl she had been taught to remember the dead, but lingering on who she might have been was dangerous for her now. Outside these walls she was wanted as a murderer. A King slayer. A traitor. She had no more home left. No more family to return to. They were all gone now. She was Alayne, Petyr’s bastard daughter. Plain, safe Alayne. What else could she ask for?

Petyr had tried to keep her hidden out of the customers sight and tucked away in a small room filled with books and locks. She began coloring her hair near black with a mixture of herbs to cover her Tully roots, and she spoke so seldomly as to try to not to give away her higher birth. Petyr insisted she wear whisper-thin silk dresses to not dampen the mood of the guests, but she was never on offer herself. She was only a spectator - a welcoming smile with no tongue and no brain.

Living in a brothel was not as arousing as the men who visited wanted to believe. Men would jeer and joke at her from the laps of their ladies, and Alayne quickly learned to lie to keep the mystique or else she ruin the mood. But the truth was, life in the brothel was monotonous, professional, and, frankly, dull. No different than working in a kitchen or a stable she figured, except for the occasional crude joke or laughingly exposed breast.

But...there were times when Alayne could hear the screaming and moaning from the other side of the curtain suddenly change pitch and her heart would quicken. It was rare when a whore’s moans turned into something more primal and hungry. Alayne’s stomach would flutter and she grew slick between her legs at the sound of it. Sometimes she found herself curious...and she wondered what it felt like. She wondered what could make a whore screech like that after a day of bored moaning.

She was seven and ten, a woman grown and flowered and previously wed, but she still had never seen a marriage bed. She had never been touched by a man in all her years, and lately...she began to wish that weren’t so. Some nights she woke from dreams so vivid and passionate she would have sworn before the court that they were real. Visions of a dark stranger showing her what it meant to change pitch. A knight who would kiss her gently and stroke her skin - so different from the men who visited this place who grabbed and roared. If she were to stay with Petyr forever, then why did he keep her locked up and unattainable in this cage? What was he waiting for? It began with dreams of keeping her chastity for when she would return to her noble place...but they had not spoken of that in years. Perhaps he meant for her to die a maid if he could not have her himself. She feared she would waste away in this place, surrounded by books and numbers.

Lys, the sweet tempered boy who was in charge of the men of the house, watched silently as Alayne dropped her heavy counting book on the table with a crashing thud.

“Will your eyes soon fall out, Alayne?” he teased. He liked to tease her. He was pretty, in a clean cut way. If he did not prefer the company of men, many would have assumed he was sweet for her. He leaned across the table lazily and sent her a knowing wink. “I don’t know which task is worse - mine or yours.”

Alayne only smiled. She knew all too well to keep her thoughts to herself. Innocently she asked, “Do you know where my father is?”

“He will be back shortly,” Lys answered, propping his chin on the heel of his hand. “There is a large group outside.”

She heard the commotion then. “He cannot come in,” she heard the guard saying on the other side of the doors. “He must stay outside.”

A bell was rung, and suddenly young girls, grown women, and lithe men were scurrying into the room like rats to stand in a line. Petyr came rushing through the doors, his tunic ripped open at the waist in a disheveled way, exposing the scar that ran from his neck to his navel. A dozen men dressed heavily for war came blundering in behind him, filling the large greeting room with their size and boisterous sound.

At the tail-end of the crowd, another war-dressed man walked in. Half his face was cast in shadow, but when he turned she could see a dark leather eyepatch over one eye. It shined like an oil slick in the candle light. He didn't look much older than she - he had young skin and few wrinkles around his uncovered eye. His beard was thick and trimmed, but his face was marred with healing scars. He had seen many swords. Marks of war. Marks of fighting. Alayne was sure he had seen many deaths in his short life.

“That’s the man they’ve all been talking about,” a working girl whispered into Alayne’s ear. “The group that’s been pillaging their way south.”

Alaynes pulse quickened. Rumors had flown down the Kingsroad faster than these men could travel and the smallfolk had been gossiping about them for weeks. News of their deeds, good and bad, had everyone talking. Some of the crown soldiers who stayed with them had complained loudly about the “demon boy who wouldn’t die.” Suddenly knowing his identity had Alayne’s skin prickle as if in danger.

His men were louder than him. They laughed and cheered and picked their chosen girls before running off into the many rooms. Petyr spun on his heel, directing the working girls with flourishing waves. When he spotted Alayne his eyes widened. She was not supposed to be there. Soon all had paired up, but the man with the eyepatch stood alone.

He was silent as he took in the room and the choices left, strolling alongside the line of women. Alayne nervously avoided eye contact and tucked her heavy bound ledger closer to her chest as she tried to hide amongst the curtains. She wanted to disappear into the scenery - fade out of sight like a ghost. She could feel Petyr’s anger at her presence from across the room.

After making his way to the end of the line the man stopped, turned on his heel and suddenly his hand was outreached, a finger pointing directly at Alayne.

“Her.”

All the blood drained out of Alayne’s body. Petyr jumped in quickly. “My lord, she is not available.”

The man seemed unfazed, not even blinking his one good eye. “I will pay twice the going rate.”

“I can see your eagerness, my lord, but, you see, she is…” Petyr caught her eye briefly, and she could see a quick flash of unmistakable panic in his eyes. He searched for a breath, searching for help - for an answer. A lie never comes as easily as the truth, no matter how many times it is said. With a small, almost invisible nod of her head as if to give him permission, he continued. “-my daughter. She is my daughter.”

The man didn’t waiver. “Four times what you ask.” He grabbed a leather pouch at his waist and within his fingers it jingled the unmistakable music of gold. The man was bold to insist on a brothel owner’s daughter. Was he trying to prove his dominance?

Petyr’s jaw clenched. “I’m afraid I must decline your generous offer.”

The man beckoned Petyr closer with a curl of his finger. Against his better judgement, Petyr leaned in. “I know you are not a married man. A bastard, I take it?” He took a measured glance of her, scanning her body up and down with his gaze. “You are saving her for… what exactly? She surely cannot fetch a high price in marriage. What makes her so precious?”

A guest would not be able to see, but Alayne’s trained eye could. Petyr looked ready to scream underneath his calm demeanor. This man was dangerously close to the truth. A true bastard would not be worth more than gold to a whorehouse keeper. Petyr should give her no special treatment, or else he give away the truth.

Petyr stammered, but Alayne’s eyes lingered on the sword hanging by the bag of gold on the man’s hip. A ruby glinted from the handle, which matched what appeared to be dried blood splattered across the belt.

“I’ll do it,” she blurted. Petyr’s eyes burned as he stared at her, a boiling mixture of anger and helplessness. “Father, you do not need to deny gold for me.” Despite his triumph, the man did not appear to be overly excited at her interruption.

Petyr swept close. “Dear daughter, you don’t have to-“

“It’s as you say, Father-“ She breathed a shiver of courage and glanced at the one-eyed man. “Everyone has their price.”

—

Petyr rushed around the private room, snapping his fingers at servants, spinning around Alayne so quickly she worried she might grow dizzy.

“I should have put the veil on you when I thought of it,” he hissed low under his breath. Alayne darkly remembered the conversation. She had asked not to when Petyr had suggested the idea, but never before had a customer insisted on taking her, veil or no.

“Perhaps he will not hurt me-“

“This is no good knight, Alayne!” Petyr interrupted. “He is a murderer. He has brought much pain to the families in the North.” Petyr snapped to grab her full attention. “I fear he will not be kind. Do not humor him.”

The words sent a dagger of ice down her spine. Her home. Her people. She was to bed a man who had brought terror onto her home? A slayer? “Father,” she choked, as Petyr tossed a wisp of a robe into her hands. “I _didn’t_ -”

He shushed her, stopping only to grab her face between his hands. “Hush, now. Do not fret. I will not let him touch you.”

He moved to a nearby cabinet, took a decanter, and he forced it into her hands. “I want you to do something for me, sweetling. You will offer him this wine to ease his nerves.” He gripped his hand around hers tightly - so strong that her fingers began to throb. “Whatever happens, do not drink it yourself, for it is laced with the strongest poison.”

She swallowed past the lump in her throat. She knew what he meant - what he was telling her she had to do. “You mean for me to-“  
  
Petyr cut her off, sweeping a hand across her hair and pressing a cold finger to her lips. “ _For the North,_ Alayne.”

-

Petyr sent her with the wine in her hands and a robe that did not perform as covering at all. The black lace slid across her nipples and clung against her legs, but most of her flesh was open and vulnerable. When she entered the room, she saw that the man had prepared as well. His leathers and furs were gone, and his uncovered back was turned to her. The muscles in his shoulders arched over his back in a graceful way, and she could see them tense and release as he inspected an exotic trinket that decorated the room.

He had not heard her enter. She cleared her throat, and he spun to face her. Alayne found her eyes shoot to the floor. _Be courteous, sweetling,_ she heard in the back of her mind. Lessons and advice she had been told time and time again.

The man did not speak or move for what felt like ages. Alayne was aware of how her skin showed through the lace - more than any man had ever seen before. She felt so open and vulnerable as he watched her.

Slowly he took a step closer. “You are a maiden?” He walked around her like a merchant appraising a horse.

She kept her eyes to the floor and answered softly, “Yes, my lord.”

“A maid inside a whorehouse. I find that hard to believe.”

“It is the truth, or would you not believe any words from a girl in a whorehouse?” She said, and she did not know where her tongue had found its bravery.

“If you are a maid, then how shall I know if you are...prepared?” he asked.

“One learns things from the girls. One does not need to look far to know.” Whores talk. They loved to endlessly tease and discuss the lavacious details to her until she blushed. But after several years, Alayne had stopped blushing.

Alayne moved to the table and placed down the decanter of wine. As she began to pour, the man stepped close behind her, his breath meeting the soft, sensitive skin on the back of her neck.

“You are very beautiful,” he said, sliding his hand under the hem of her robe and peeling it down her shoulder. A shiver shot down her spine and she knew her body had betrayed her as every hair on her skin stood to attention. “Your mother must be very beautiful, as well.”

Sansa’s mother had been, but Alayne’s… She could not see a face for Petyr’s lover. “She was,” Alayne answered truthfully, reaching to pour the wine into another jeweled goblet.

“Was?” he asked. His voice dripped with a husky, sweet curiosity. That particular quality was most dangerous to her - especially now. Lies have a tendency to tangle into webs...and she had been weaving a large one for quite some time.

“She died a long time ago,” Alayne answered quickly. “But my father is a man of great taste.” She spun to face him and found he was standing so close behind her that her shoulders and breasts pressed up against his chest. “Try this and you will see. This is his favorite wine. A red from Dorne.” Avoiding his eye, she held the goblet out to him. “To ease your nerves.”

The man took the cup from her, but did not raise it to his lips. He only held it at waist height as his uncovered eye watched her.

“I think conversation might ease my nerves better,” he said, backing away from her and easing himself onto the bed. “Come.” Alayne stared at the floor, but obeyed and joined him.

The bed was soft and plush, and the silk slid against her skin. She stayed seated upright and alert, curling her legs underneath her, refusing to relax next to him. The beads and metal charms tinkled in the air, and the warm light from the windows might suggest that winter had never come at all. The man seemed relaxed enough already, stretching out and laying wide open against the pillows and curtains that swam around them.

She knew Petyr kept daggers as sharp as razors hidden in each room. The girls were told of their locations, but Alayne had never needed to know. She looked around, wondering where the dagger in this room might be. Under the table? Amongst the cushions?

“What takes you to King’s Landing, my lord?” He had placed the goblet of wine on the table next to the bed, and it glared at her as she spoke.

“I’m not a lord.”

 _Then where did he get so much coin?_ From all of the Northerners he killed or the smallfolk he robbed? Alayne did not want to think more on it. “Ser?” she suggested.

“I’m not a knight, either.” He slid the back of his hand from her shoulder down to her wrist. The tingle that shot to her stomach left her breathless for a moment.

“Then what might I call you?”

“You may call me whatever you wish, if it pleases you.”

“What takes you to King’s Landing, _your grace?_ ” she hissed mockingly. Many a man dreamed himself a king inside these walls. Rumor had it that his followers called him “King Crow.”

“Haven’t you heard?” he teased back in kind. He seemed more than amused at her tone. “I’m here for what was taken from me.”

Alayne studied him, watching his battle-weathered hand draw circles on her skin as he spoke. “You speak in riddles, my lord.”

“I am a riddle, _my lady,_ ” he countered.

A man who pays four times the price merely for conversation… Her curiosity was piqued. It was a dance. He would touch her, she would deflect, and he would switch to the next move. Spinning around and around each other infinitely until one of them tired. Oddly, she found herself enjoying it. Some mental stimulation was welcome after years of following Petyr’s every request. This man was stronger in body, obviously, but was he stronger of mind?

“Life inside of a whorehouse…” he mused aloud. “Not fitting for a lady such as yourself. Do you have any siblings to keep you company?” he asked.

Alayne had no siblings. Sansa had once...but they were all dead. It did not benefit her to tread on them. “No.”

“Are you happy here?”

“I have shelter, food, and my father. Not many are so fortunate.”

“Few motherless bastards are cared for so lovingly, that is true.” His voice was sad, but he switched suddenly, lurching up to lean on his elbow. “They say bastards are lustful beasts.” His smirk was mischievous. “Is it true for bastard-born women?”

Alayne acted shy. “I could not say.”

He sat up at that. “You have never so much touched a man?”

She shook her head. “Never.”

The man laughed deep in his throat, and rose his hands up behind his head to recline back. “I should have paid more.”

Alayne never understood that reasoning. A green girl who knew nothing surely is not as valuable as a woman grown comfortable in her skin. But men were fickle fools, and a girls maidenhead was most valuable of all. _Father will have all your gold soon,_ Alayne thought.

“May I?” she asked, as her fingers hovered above his skin. A bemused eyebrow rose above his eyepatch, but he nodded in permission. Tentatively she smoothed a hand across his muscles. First across his bulging bicep, then she traveled to his chest. This might be the only chance she would get, she realized. She found herself imagining those strong muscles picking her up, throwing her over his shoulder and stealing her away. Holding her above the floor so easily as if she were a feather. She had seen the whores do some marvelous...well, she had seen some acrobatic feats. Her stomach tightened again.

His eye was dark and hungry as he watched her come across his scars. They were dark and gruesome, slashed across places one wouldn’t imagine surviving. He was suddenly very solemn, and the air crackled with expectation. She knew what he wanted - what he had paid for. Silently he grabbed her wrist, pulling gently to lead her onto his lap. She obeyed, throwing a leg across him as he wordlessly reached up and smoothed loose hair behind her ear.

Her stomach was all aflutter at the dark hunger in his eye and the seriousness on his face. _Let him kiss me now, while there is no poison on his lips,_ she thought hastily. He could steal a kiss quickly and no one would have to know. She wanted to know what it felt like. She wondered if it tasted as sweet as it did in her dreams.

Yet...he didn’t. It felt as if he was about to, but he stayed back. Alayne scolded the yearning deep in her stomach, and snapped back to herself.

 _This is no true knight,_ Petyr had said. _He has brought much pain to the families of the North._ Alayne’s mind soured, and she eyed the goblet on the table again. _Before he touches me again,_ she thought. She did not know if she could trust herself against his skin any longer.

She leaned over to reach for the cup. “Are you ready for the wine now, my lord?”

“Not yet,” he answered, stopping her hand. “Though, I suspect you desire it more than I.”

She saw his hand begin to reach to offer the cup to her, and she froze. How would she deny him without arousing suspicion? Quickly she jerked her hand, expertly knocking the goblet over as if it were an accident. The red wine spilled and splashed across the table and dripped down to the floor.

“Oh!” she falsely cried. “My apologies.” The man just laughed. She moved to clean up the spill, pushing herself away from his lap.

“Graceful, you are,” he joked, but he wrapped his arms around her all the same. “Forget the wine. You won’t need it.”

He pulled her back down to lay next to him, tucking her under his shoulder. She wanted to feel trapped as he held her tight, but she felt warm instead. His arm wrapped around her so perfectly it was as if the hollow of his arm was made for the shape of her.

“You act too familiar,” she whispered.

“I thought that was what the gold was for? Gold brings many friends.”

He was right. But somehow it wasn’t the gold that made her heart beat fast. His touch was like fire against her skin, and she was afraid to meet his eye. Not for the disfigurement, but for the hunger she might find there...and any she might return.

She needed to distract herself.

“Have your travels taken you north?” she asked although she already knew the answer. She wanted to hear of her home. She wondered what it looked like now.

“Aye,” he answered curiously.

“Have the winter snows arrived yet? I hear the snow can get as high as hills and halfway up the castle walls.” It was no lie. She had heard that before, when she was very young. In a different life she had hoped to see it in person once winter arrived, but now it seemed the only way she could see it was through the eyes of another.

“Aye. Even higher. Everything is covered in white.”

“Not Winterfell.” Her tongue was not her own. “Winterfell has heated walls.” It came out before she knew it.

His hand froze, holding her in place. “How do you know so much about the North? Were you born there?”

“I grew up hearing stories,” she answered. She had spoken too much, she knew. But surely this man would not know Old Nan and her tales. “But if I believed every story I was told about the North, I’d be asking about spiders as big as hounds, or giants beyond the Wall.” She tried to laugh away the ridiculousness of the stories, to cover her tracks.

Suddenly he grew quiet, and his hands were not dancing across her skin anymore. Nervous, Alayne stood to go back to the decanter of wine. He was close to the truth. “Perhaps now you would like the wine?” She was desperate.

“What did you say your name was again?” he asked.

She hadn’t. “Alayne, my lord.” _Named for my lady mother._

“That’s a...very pretty name.” he said softly. With a small chuckle reserved for someone deep in thought, he added softly, “Pardon my manners. Someone in my youth told me that girls like being told their name is pretty.”

 _A coincidence,_ she insisted silently. _There is no way._ “It’s very chivalrous, my lord,” she choked, hastily handing him a fresh cup. He took it.

“My sister,” he clarified, gesturing with his cup. “Or something like it. She was taken from me, too. A very long time ago. My family, as well.”

His words echoed in her head, and suddenly they fell into place. He raised the cup to his lips, and time seemed to slow down as she quickly searched his body for a sign. His hair, longer now but just as brown and just as curly. She realized she had not allowed herself to stare into his good eye deeply enough to recognize the cool grey she had once known so well. The answer started as a quiet scream in her mind. She had to search for it, as if it was just a dream from a long time ago, reaching for it in the dark. She grasped it and suddenly it was clear. _Jon? Jon. Jon!_

“ _No!_ “ She slapped the cup from his hands before it reached his lips. Wine left a streak of red across his bare chest like a gaping wound, and the goblet hit the floor with a loud clang and rolled away, only quieting once it disappeared underneath the bed. Shocked, he stared at her with narrow eye. “Don’t drink the wine,” she whispered.

Alayne found herself frozen. If she was wrong, she had just revealed Petyr’s plans and they were all doomed. If she was right... _gods, if she was right._ The odds did not seem in her favor.

She could hardly spit the name out. The word felt foreign and tasted like a lie. “...Jon?” 


End file.
